


Bedside Manner

by FeoplePeel



Series: Champion's Coffer [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/M, Kid Fic, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Varric both have bedside manners influenced by their pasts.</p><p>Short set between Champion's Coffer and Singing Stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kindervenom, who was sick, herself :heart: The prompt was, “I'd love to see Hawke's bedside manner to a grumpily sick Varric and Islen who are just oh-so-unamused by everything. Bonus points for father/daughter sick snuggles.”

Orana set the basket in her arms on the kitchen counter. She stared, fretfully, between Hawke and the vials contained within. “Are you _sure_ you can handle this by yourself?”

“Orana, don’t _worry_ so much. It’s a virus, not a plague.” Hawke picked up one containing a light green liquid and shook it a little to watch it glow. “Besides, you two have your hands full over there. I can take care of things.”

“Well, if that’s what you want…”

Honestly, dealing with a squalling three-year-old and an even more stubborn husband sounded like the last thing Hawke wanted to do, at the moment. But they were family. You look after sick family. That was the rule.

Hawke took a deep breath and ascended the steps.

**_Earlier That  Morning_ **

“Varric, Islen’s being very withdrawn. I think she picked up what I had last week.” Hawke rounded the corner to the study. “I’m going to swing by Merrill’s clinic at the Alienage and see if she can spare some of that medicine she-” Hawke stopped dead, looking Varric up and down. “Oh no.”

Varric’s eyes were red and puffy and sweat stood out on his brow. Hawke grimaced as he pulled a sleeve over his nose. “What?” He _sniffed_.

“You’re _sick_.” 

“I am not.” He bristled, immediately too defensive. 

“I can _smell it on you_.” Hawke narrowed her eyes, moving in closer.

Varric’s nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting.” 

“I know.” She crossed her arms, head motioning back towards the hall. “ _March_ , Marcher.”

**_Now_ **

Hawke tucked Islen into a bed that was rather large for her, pushing back a string of wet hair and pulling her wolf up closer to her chest. They had found that Islen-while-sick was far clingier than her healthier counterpart. She was also more sullen, lethargic, and prone to throwing food at Sarge. She was frankly pathetic and Hawke desperately wanted her happy, energetic girl back.

“Now you.” She pointed to the sheets. Varric kneeled, or rather wobbled dangerously, positioning Islen’s night light atop the book stand beside their bed where their daughter could see.

“I’m telling you I’m _not_ sick.” He protested with a laugh. She snorted disbelievingly, rearranging the covers. “It’s a summer cold, _stress_. Dwarves are of a sturdier constitution than you-”

Hawke held the bucket out just in time for him to upend the contents of his stomach. “Well, now that we have that settled. I’ll go make my babies some broth.”

**_Twenty Years Ago_ **

Hawke followed her nose to the kitchen. Her mother stood in front of a large pot, peeling a potato. She looked up, smile in her brow. “Marian?”

“We have potatoes?”

“Enough for soup.” Leandra laughed. “Come here and help me make it.” Marian jumped onto the counter, pulling the knife from her boot. She watched her mother’s eyes train on the door to the kitchen, “You too, Carver.”

“Come on!” Her brother pouted. “What am I going to need to learn cooking for?”

Marian laughed, kicking his back as he passed. He shot her a dirty look. “What’s that?” Leandra asked archly. “Men don’t need to eat?”

“I didn’t say that.” He groused.

“Pick up whatever skill you can, Carver.” Leandra ran a hand through his hair. “You never know when you’ll need it.”

**_Now_ **

Hawke stared at the potatoes for a long moment and smiled.

When she returned, serving tray loaded with two bowls of steaming broth, Varric had complied with her wishes. Islen had curled up on his chest, her breathing a little less fitful after drinking the green vial. Hawke set the tray at the bottom of the bed and felt their foreheads in turn.

“I don’t like being taken care of,” Varric said, startling her, “it reminds me of my mother.”

“That’s...” _very honest_ , she thought, “so you.”

He seemed to accept that, laughing lightly. “Shut up.”

“How about an arrangement?” She settled on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Islen awake. He raised an interested brow. “I let you take care of Islen and you let me take care of you.”

He thought about this, smiling reluctantly. “I guess it’s not such a raw deal.”

“Hey, I don’t make soup for everybody.”

“Mama?” Islen pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes.

“Hey, pip,” Hawke ran a hand through her mop of dark curls, so much like Bethany’s at times. “You get to sleep in the big bed tonight.”

“Don’t feel good.” She sobbed and Varric held her like a vice, looking completely disarmed. Hawke was very suddenly reminded that, as much as he took care of all of them, in his own family he had always been the younger brother. Sick children were a different beast entirely.

“Oh, I know.” She soothed. Islen curled into a ball, burying her head in Varric’s stomach and pulling the thinnest sheet over her. Hawke poured Varric a drinking glass.

“I’ll be back.” She leaned in to kiss his forehead. “Get her to eat _something._ More importantly, get her to _drink_ something.”

**_Twenty Years Ago_ **

“Mother, you have to drink,”

“I _want_ to drink,” Ilsa laughed, “but you won’t let me. My own son.” She clucked.

“You don’t really _get_ how the whole sobriety things works yet, do you?” Varric chuckled dryly. “The liquor is _killing_ you, you daft woman!”

“I am _dying_ of a broken heart,” she trailed off in a mutter, “my own son, my own son.”

Varric sighed, pulling out her favorite brand and pouring it into her beside glass. He had replaced the potato alcohol with water weeks ago, but the woman was so far gone she never noticed as she drank it down.

**_Now_ **

Varric set the glass on the tray, and thought for a moment.

He scrunched up his face, aiming his voice a few octaves higher before he spoke.

“Islen,”  

The lump of covers moved a little.

“Islen, my throat’s really scratchy.” He rubbed the column of his throat and was surprised at the amount of hair there. When did _that_ happen?

Shit. He _was_ sick.

“Papa?” Islen peeked her head out of the covers, blue eyes blinking slowly. She hiccuped weakly and his heart broke at the distressed sound. “Are you okay?”

Varric swallowed. “My throat hurts,” he repeated, determined, “what should I do?”

Islen finished her crawl out, using his arms as a balance, and looked around. Her eyes landed on the water glass. Her wobbly gait was worrying as she attempted the walk over and Varric steadied her with an arm around her waist until she wriggled into a kneeling position. Tiny hands wrapped around the sweating glass and she carefully moved around to hand it to him.

“Water? That’s a great idea!” He drank down most of the contents of the glass, Islen watching him with a wary eye. He refilled it with the beside jug and handed. “Doesn’t _your_ throat hurt?” Islen’s brow knitted together. “Islen, if your throat hurts, you should drink water.”

“No!” Islen pushed the glass towards him looking, if anything more concerned. “Your voice still sounds funny!”

Varric burst out laughing, gathering her into a hug. When he spoke again it was in his usual register. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Islen pushed his face away, staring at him evenly.  “Papa, you’re _really silly_.”

He pulled her in for another hug. Taking a deep breath he set her in front of the tray. “Islen?”

“Yes?” She sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the corner of a sheet.

“You and me, kid,” he handed her a spoon, “we’re sick right now. Do you remember sick?”

“Mama was sick.”

“Good.” Varric nodded. “Do you remember how she got better?”

“Med’ncine.”

“Close enough.” He grinned. “So we swallow our medicine, drink a _lot_ of water to help our scratchy throats, and eat this lovely broth that your mother made for us. I have been promised by a very charming woman that we will feel better in _no time_.”

“Mama?” Islen stared at the bowl distrustfully.

“It’s potatoes, sweetheart.” Varric looked at this own bowl, swallowing audibly. “No way to mess up potatoes…I hope.”

**_Two Days Later_ **

Islen sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by letters and a few opened packages. “This is from Uncle Anders.” Hawke ran her finger along one of the lines. “He says he hopes you are feeling well and that he does not know why cows give birth that way, no. Ask…your mother.” She rolled her eyes grumbling under her breath. “So much for a medical fount of knowledge.”

“And tell Varric hello?” Varric read over his shoulder. “ _Really?_ Was I not sick too?” He bent over, examining one of the gifts. A porcelain Orlesian horse from Bethany. “Where’re my presents?”

“Don’t lie, I _know_ they send you your own letters.” Hawke stood, snatching the horse from him and placing it on the mantle. “Maybe when you write a new book you’ll get more fan mail. What was that Aveline was complaining about? _Swords and Shields_? Sounds _fascinating_.”

“It’s garbage.” Varric replied flatly. “I’m glad to see the back of it.”

Hawke smiled blissfully. “I’m glad I don’t have to peel another potato.”

Across the room, Sarge let out a great sneeze.


End file.
